


A Questionable Quest

by lamardeuse



Category: Merlin (BBC) RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-18
Updated: 2010-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bradley, Colin, and the quest for the perfect crisp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Questionable Quest

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of complete and total fiction. I do not actually know the name of Bradley James' home town, or whether Colin Morgan is a vegan or a vegetarian.
> 
> A/N: This is pure crack, influenced by Red Dwarf, the Blues Brothers, the Canterbury Tales, and my own personal tragedy regarding Walker's Onion Bhaji crisps.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks: To expectprism, Sihaya Black and Nny for editing, Britpicking, and evil enabling.

Colin knows it's going to be a long week when he hears Bradley swearing through the wall separating their rooms.

He opens the adjoining doors without knocking, and doesn't think about the fact this has become something of a habit since they returned to France to begin shooting series two. When he pokes his head in, he sees Bradley hunched over his laptop, his expression murderous, exactly like Arthur's as he prepares to battle some computer generated magical creature with foot-long fangs.

"What the hell's the matter with you now?" Colin says by way of greeting.

Bradley doesn't even bother to look up, as though it's perfectly natural that Colin should feel free to wander into his room at any provocation. He waves a hand at the screen, mouth working in soundless fury for a few seconds before he says, "Bloody buggering builder's breakfast."

"That's very alliterative of you," Colin says, unable to keep from smiling. He seems to be doing that quite a lot around Bradley lately; it's another disturbing trend he's noticed since they started living in one another's pockets again.

"Fine, mock my pain," Bradley pouts, and Colin sighs and comes round the small desk to peer at Bradley's laptop screen. He notes the URL and frowns.

"Walker's crisps? You're pitching a fit over Walker's crisps?"

"Not just any crisps," sniffs Bradley. "We're talking about Onion Bhaji crisps! Only the best crisps in the history of crisps! And the voting populace of the Kingdom have rejected them in favour of the most boring shite you can possibly shove in your face."

Now Colin's even more confused. "Vote? There was a vote?" He doesn't remember hearing an election called, though he was fairly busy over the hiatus –

"Of course there was a vote, where were you the past few months?" Bradley clicks on a link, and the page changes. Colin scans it quickly.

"Oh," he says, vague memory kicking in. "Right, I remember those. I think I tried the chilli and chocolate once." Bradley turns to look at him, eyebrow raised, and Colin shrugs. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." He doesn't add that he was spectacularly hung over; it goes without saying, really.

"Yeah, well, that one came in dead last, thank God," Bradley says, shuddering.

"So – let me see if I'm understanding this properly – people _voted_ for their favourite new flavour of crisps?"

Bradley's other eyebrow joins the first in expressing his astonishment. "Yes? Over a million people, actually, including myself."

"Oh," Colin says again, and he can't resist adding, "well, I suppose if you've nothing better to do..."

"I'm sorry, this is all too horribly plebian for you, isn't it," Bradley drawls, with such utter predictability Colin can't help smiling again, which of course only fans the flames. "Yes, that's it, laugh it up at the poor unwashed proletariat who have, I may add, crowned your skinny Irish arse a _living god_ of the telly –"

"My arse is not skinny," Colin responds automatically, though he knows many would agree with Bradley. Personally, he thinks his arse is just the right size, not that it's capable of cracking walnuts the way certain people's overly muscled backsides are able to do.

"Regardless," Bradley continues, "it simply won't do for you to lose touch with the hoi polloi now that you've ascended beyond the mundane cares of mere mortals. And evidently it's up to me to keep your feet firmly planted on solid ground –" Colin snorts, earning him a sharp glare "– and your head able to fit through doorways."

"And how do you plan to do that, pray tell?" Colin says, grinning openly now and no longer caring what, precisely, this says about him.

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough," Bradley promises, his voice pitching low with promise, and Colin does not feel something in his stomach flutter in a girlish fashion. He can feel his smile fading, and a spark lights in Bradley's eyes that tells him they were playing some sort of game for the past five minutes and Colin's just lost spectacularly.

Fuck.

"Right, then, some of us have lines to learn," Colin mutters, forcing his feet to move, and Bradley's bloody buggering chuckle of triumph follows him all the way back to his room.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

Bradley's odd all week during shooting – well, odd for him, not for normal humans, which means Colin's talking over-the-top March Hare levels of odd. He's quiet and withdrawn, for starters, and at first Colin takes this for depression over the loss of his beloved crisps, until he realises Bradley's being _pensive_, and that throws out everything he thought he knew about Bradley James. Bradley is an outgoing, thick-necked footballer, the sort of alright bloke that men who play in pub darts tournaments like to have around. Which is inexplicable, considering Bradley is not only an actor, and pretty, but also as posh as they come without actually being in line for the throne; he had a perfect public-school career, all tarted up in his little uniform. Colin's seen pictures. And right, so yes, Colin may have drifted off one boring afternoon waiting for a scene to be lit and dreamed about a slightly younger him crowding a slightly younger Bradley up against the dirty brick wall of his old school, grabbing him by his conservative striped tie and sullying him in wicked working-class ways, but that was only his subconscious talking, and his subconscious can go fuck itself as far as he's concerned. Bradley is all leaping eyebrows and too-big expressions and loud, braying laughter, almost painfully English, and he's nothing that Colin has ever wanted, though yes, there are times of weakness or fatigue when Colin has the terrifying urge to just _lean_ against him and see what will happen.

Which is beside the point. The point is, Colin's the thinker, the brooder, not Bradley; Bradley talks incessantly and jokes with the crew and plays frisbee and feeds the horses carrots and apples and generally runs about like a silly bugger, so when Bradley starts spending all of his time when he's not before the camera sitting round and typing – _typing_, for Christ's sake – on his laptop, Colin decides that's the last straw. He saunters up to Bradley, trying to appear nonchalant, though it's lost on his costar because Bradley's completely absorbed. Colin manages to get right behind him and leans down over his shoulder to peer at the screen.

And this, of course, would be right when Bradley's head snaps up and round, and the top of his thick skull drives right into Colin's jaw, slamming it upwards.

"Shit!" Colin exclaims, recoiling in haste and rubbing at his wounded jaw. He sends up a silent prayer of thanks that his tongue wasn't in the way of his teeth; it would have been cleaved in two.

Bradley mutters an oath and is on his feet in a trice, and he wraps his hands solidly around Colin's biceps. "Are you alright?" he asks, voice full of concern. "Colin. Are you alright?"

"I will be," Colin assures him, prodding at the underside of his jaw gently, "though I might be a bit black and blue come morning."

"Here," Bradley says gruffly, and the next thing Colin knows there's a large hand cupping his face with incredible gentleness and tipping it up with the lightest of pressure. Bradley ducks down to inspect the point of impact, and makes a small hissing noise. "Bugger, it's already looking a bit red along the bone."

"M'sure it'll be fine," Colin croaks. The pain has suddenly faded to almost nothing because all he can think is _Bradley is touching my face_ like some besotted schoolgirl who's been mad about the star footballer all year and is unexpectedly given her fondest wish. They're standing just outside the hair and makeup trailer, and when Bradley lets Colin's chin down again and straightens, Colin notices Siobhan, one of the makeup artists, is watching them avidly as she puffs on a Benson's during her fag break. He can feel himself blushing, and shit, he's been starkers on stage; he doesn't _blush_.

Bradley's staring into his eyes now, probably checking for signs of concussion, the silly git, and his hand is still on Colin's face. Colin snaps, "Are you done with the inspection, then?" and Bradley quickly removes his hand as though he's been burnt, then raises it in front of him like he's placating a rabid animal.

"I just – " Bradley stops himself, takes a step back, shakes his head. "Sorry."

Colin sighs. "Look, it's my own fault anyway; I was trying to get a butcher's at what you're writing."

Bradley blinks at him, clearly confused. "At what I'm – oh," he says, comprehension dawning. "I wouldn't call it writing, exactly. More like planning." There's the smallest hint of mischief in his eyes when he says the last word, and just like that Colin's forgotten Siobhan, and how the fuck does Bradley _do_ that?

Colin folds his arms. "I know you're dying for me to ask you, but I don't think I will, now."

"Not going to give me the satisfaction, hm?" Bradley asks, and something in the way he says _satisfaction_ sounds horrifyingly suggestive, though that's probably only Colin's oversexed imagination. "Well, I'd just as soon wait to show you; it's not quite done yet." He sketches a rectangle in the air between them with his hands, as though he's a director framing a shot. "I want you to get the full effect."

"Sounds ominous," Colin says, trying not to sound as worried as he now is. What the hell is Bradley on about? Just last week he was raving about that new PR fellow, the one who wanted the two of them to take their shirts off for the publicity stills; is this some sort of elaborate revenge?

Bradley cackles in a sinister fashion, and it's really terribly annoying that Colin has to bite his tongue to keep from smiling at that. "It may be, and it may not," he says cryptically. "Now, how about I get you some ice to put on it? It always used to help for my bruises."

Colin freezes, horrified at the prospect of Bradley possibly touching his face again in front of everyone. "No, that's alright, really," he insists. "I have to, um, I just remembered I need to talk to Richard about the next scene, so I'd better –" He gestures vaguely toward the place he thinks Richard might be, though it's essentially a wild guess. "Go."

"Ever the dedicated artist," Bradley says, and Colin's still trying to decipher his tone when the costume fitter calls for him and he shuts his laptop and obediently sprints off toward the trailer. Colin stands there for a few moments like a bugwit, then stalks off in the opposite direction, having absolutely no idea where he's going.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

At the end of the day, Colin's ready to collapse. He needn't have worried about the bruise Bradley gave him, because he's got sixteen fresher ones now from being flung about on the end of a harness for hours, all to create the illusion that another dragon – apparently the sister of the one under the castle – tried to use Merlin as a chew toy. Of course, Arthur arrived in the nick of time to save him; his part consisted of leaping from his horse, swinging his sword and looking so ridiculously handsome Colin forgot his lines twice and had to be flung about some more as a result.

He thinks he hates Bradley a little. No, a lot.

After standing in the shower for half an hour and letting the hot water soothe his aching muscles, he dries himself off and wanders out of the loo, still rubbing the towel over his hair.

While he's still got a faceful of terrycloth, he hears something, an odd gurgling sound. Colin tugs the towel away from his face –

– and sees Bradley sat at the desk in the far corner of the room, cheeks as red as a baboon's arse.

"H'lo," Bradley says, sounding as though someone's strangling him with his own tongue.

"What the fucking fuck are you doing here?" Colin demands, hastily wrapping the towel around his waist, and Bradley gets even redder.

"I – I wanted to show you my plan," Bradley says, voice uncharacteristically small, and it's then that Colin realises he's got his laptop open on the desk in front of him. "But, um" – Bradley shoots up suddenly like a jack-in-the-box – "obviously I should've knocked first –" His eyes dart toward the adjoining doors, but Colin's neatly blocking his path; he's making a beeline for the main door when it occurs to Colin _he made Bradley James blush_.

"Wait," Colin says sharply, and Bradley stops dead in his tracks but still doesn't look at him, he adds, "look, I'm being a twat. It's only that I've had a shit day, you know that. And really, considering neither of us knocks, it's a miracle one of us hasn't walked in on the other one wanking by now."

Bradley glances at Colin's face from under his eyelashes, a small smile reluctantly breaking through. "S'not like you to look on the bright side. What's the matter with you?"

Trying to be as cool as possible, Colin heads for his dresser. Not bothering with pants, he grabs a t-shirt and a pair of jeans from the drawer while Bradley walks back to his computer and pretends to be fascinated while Colin dresses. "Dunno," Colin says. "I suppose it's all the paracetamol."

"Welcome to my world," Bradley mutters, utterly unsympathetic, and Colin feels better instantly. This is a Bradley he knows, the old, familiar one, and if it took him showing his wedding tackle to get that thick-necked git back again, he supposes it was worth it. He drops the towel, shimmies into the jeans and zips himself up quickly, then turns round just in time to see Bradley's gaze snap guiltily upward.

Alright, so not exactly the old, reassuring Bradley, then. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

"So what've you got?" Colin asks, knees feeling oddly rubbery as he pads across the carpet in his bare feet.

Bradley grins. "Prepare yourself, mate," he commands, cracking his knuckles.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

Five minutes later, Colin's still staring at the screen, stunned as a battered cod.

"What's wrong?" Bradley demands, clearly taking Colin's confusion for disapproval.

Colin shakes his head mechanically. "Nothing. I can see you've really – erm, planned this all out." What Bradley's done is create a fiendishly detailed itinerary that involves heading back to England tomorrow morning, the first day of their blessedly anticipated long weekend, hiring a panel lorry in Folkestone, then proceeding to methodically strip Kent of every package of Onion Bhaji crisps left in existence. Then, when the lorry is bulging at the seams, he intends to load the whole thing on the train and return to France with his booty.

Right now there's a Google map up on the screen, a frighteningly detailed one plotting the most efficient course between every Somerfield, Tesco's, Iceland, Costcutter, Sainsbury's and Morrison's in the shire: Folkestone to Dover, then Canterbury to Faversham and along the coast to Whitstable and Herne Bay. It is, Colin imagines, what Hitler's invasion plan for the Home Islands might have looked like if he'd had an insatiable lust for curry rather than conquest.

"I know it looks a bit mental," Bradley says uncertainly.

"That's only because it is," Colin says, unable to keep the admiration from his voice. "But it's also kind of brilliant."

"In a mental way."

"Right."

Bradley leans back in the chair, and his hair brushes Colin's bare arm where it's braced on the back. "So, you coming or not?"

Colin takes a deep breath, and before he can think better of it, he hears himself say, "Yeah, why not?" He reasons that it wasn't as though he had any world-shaking plans for his mini-holiday; he'd probably have gone back to his flat in Vauxhall, seen his mate Nigel's latest play, perhaps gone to a club and had a quick shag with some anonymous bloke to dispel this itch he's feeling. And that last is a truly moronic idea, really, considering anyone with a mobile could take a snapshot of him with his trousers round his knees, and then farewell to that promising career in family television. No, it's looking more and more as though he'll either have to content himself with his right hand or find someone he can reasonably expect to not put streaming video of their sexual hijinks on YouTube. Someone who understands what it's like to live in the glare of limelight, or at least can sympathise.

None of which is relevant to his impulsive decision to go along on Bradley's bizarre quest. Despite his winks and nods to the fans who wish with all their hearts that Merlin and Arthur were the Beeb's next Jack and Ianto, Bradley's the poster boy for heterosexuality. Colin's pretty sure Bradley doesn't know he plays both sides of the pitch, but he's always liked to keep his private life private, and he doesn't intend to tell him anytime soon. He sure as hell doesn't intend to tell him he's been fancying him far too much lately. That way lies madness and disaster of dragon-sized proportions.

"– and so I thought we could leave at – Morgan, are you listening to me?" Colin's startled back to awareness when Bradley flicks a finger against his forearm; shaking himself, he blinks at Bradley stupidly.

"Oh, for – never mind. We'll leave at six, yeah?"

Colin boggles. "Don't I even rate a bit of a lie-in on my day off?"

Bradley closes the laptop and rises to his feet, and then he takes Colin by the shoulders and pins him with his gaze, and for a moment Colin forgets there's anything in the world that isn't Bradley's huge blue eyes. Bradley's face is close, too close, and Colin can feel the soft puff of Bradley's breath on his own face. And then Bradley squeezes Colin's shoulders and promises in a low, honeyed voice that goes straight to Colin's groin, "This adventure will make a man of you, my lad."

Colin's rose-coloured bubble bursts abruptly as the eyebrows above those gorgeous eyes waggle suggestively, and he sighs. "Alright, why don't you clear out of my room so I can get some sleep," he mutters, and Bradley grins and releases him, then grabs his laptop and scarpers. When he reaches the adjoining door, he pauses and turns back, and this time his smile is small and almost shy, and once again, Colin's snapped back into fascination as easily as a yo-yo at the end of its master's string.

"Thanks," Bradley says softly, and before Colin can remember how to produce speech, he's gone.

Groaning, Colin switches off the light and collapses face-down on the bed, still fully clothed. If he survives this weekend, it's going to be a bloody miracle.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

True to his word, Bradley's shaking Colin awake while it's still dark, and of course he's chipper and full of energy while Colin can barely drag his aching body out of bed. He informs Colin he's already been for his morning run, and Colin wants to beat him to death with his pillow, but he can't because Bradley seems so gormlessly happy that Colin also feels the contradictory urge to kiss him senseless. It's confusing, but confusion's not really new where Bradley's concerned. At any rate, kissing anyone isn't a good idea before he's brushed his teeth, and so he stumbles off to the loo to quickly take care of his fuzz-filled mouth and his morning erection.

They hop a train to Pas-de-Calais and are boarding the Eurostar by nine. By noon they're hiring the lorry in Folkestone; as Bradley's signing his name to the multi-page agreement partially written, no doubt, in Sanskrit, the woman behind the counter asks if he can sign another piece of paper while he's about it for her niece. Bradley smiles and turns on the charm and chats her up, asking her niece's name and taking the time to write a personalised message, and Colin turns away and burrows deeper into his hoodie. He knows he's being a tit, but he wishes he could have a weekend completely to himself, no fans asking for autographs or telling him how much they love the show. He'd been hoping this would be one of those weekends, but crisscrossing the countryside has put paid to that notion.

His foul mood hasn't entirely dissipated by the time they drive off. After Bradley makes a couple of attempts to engage him in conversation that fall flat, he mutters, "Alright, then," and pulls the lorry into a parking space in front of a shop full of tourist nonsense near the tunnel, fluorescent Union Jacks and equally garish t-shirts displayed in the window. Bradley heads into the shop without looking back, and Colin makes the mature decision to sit and sulk instead of following him inside.

Bradley's back within five minutes with a plastic bag; he buckles himself in without comment, then reaches inside the bag and tosses something into Colin's lap. Colin looks down and picks it up.

"Sunglasses?" They're cheap black plastic, but they're not hideous. Colin dons them and turns to Bradley, who's wearing his own aviator pair.

"Thought you might like to shun the glare of daylight, like the good little Irish vampire you are."

Colin should tell him to fuck off, but instead he just smiles. "You're too good to me."

Bradley smirks back. "They're also useful for avoiding autograph seekers, by the way. You know, in case I was right and you were avoiding that poor woman like she had the bubonic plague."

Colin sighs. Here we go; Bradley's about to tell him he's being an elitist prat, too good for his devoted public. "Look," he murmurs, "I just – I wanted a couple of days away from it. I know it sounds pathetic, but I probably would've holed up in the flat most of the weekend, taking it easy and not being Merlin. I'm grateful for this, I really am, but sometimes it all seems too mad and I –"

"Hey," Bradley interrupts, and while his gentle tone stops Colin mid-sentence, his understanding expression stops Colin's heart. "You know I'd be happy to drive you to London if you'd rather. Just say the word."

Colin looks at him for a long moment, searching for – Christ, he doesn't know what he's searching for, or perhaps he does and doesn't want to admit it. Finally, he says, "No, no, I want to do this with you. I mean, this – whatever the hell this is. I want to do it."

"With me," Bradley finishes, eyes crinkling, and this time Colin does tell him to fuck off. Bradley only laughs and pats him on the leg. "I'm going to get us two enormous cups of tea to takeaway, and then onward to adventure, yeah?"

"Yeah," Colin agrees, smile growing fond only when Bradley's turned back to the windscreen.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

"Bugger, bugger, bugger!"

Colin follows a profane and frustrated Bradley out of the Canterbury Morrison's. It's the third shop they've tried that doesn't have a single package of Onion Bhaji crisps left. Plenty of Chilli and Chocolate, mind you, and oodles of Cajun Squirrel, but no sign of the more popular flavours, except of course for the infamous champion, Builder's Breakfast. By the time they reach the Sainsbury's, Colin notices there's a vein on Bradley's forehead that bulges every time he claps eyes on yet another towering display of the newly crowned monarch of crisps.

Which of course prompts Colin to buy a bag and rip it open as soon as they're out of the shop.

"You're a traitor to the cause," Bradley grits, "and anyway, how can you even eat those? I thought you were a vegetarian."

"I am." Colin turns the back of the packet toward Bradley and points to a line. "It says it's suitable for vegetarians."

Bradley frowns. "How can that be? It's _bacon flavour_."

"Yeah, _flavour_ being the operative word," Colin says, laughing. "I'm confident there's no actual essence of animal in here, believe me."

"So being a vegetarian means the freedom to ingest all manner of artificial shit?" Bradley sniffs contemptuously. "No wonder you're the paragon of health."

Colin sticks his tongue out at him. "Not all of us can be muscle-bound slabs of beef."

"You been looking at my muscles, Morgan?" Bradley drawls, and Colin covers his embarrassment by reaching into the bag and stuffing a couple of crisps in his mouth.

"Bloody hell, these are boring," Colin murmurs. Disgusted, he walks over to the nearest waste bin and drops the bag into it. When he turns back, Bradley's got an oddly triumphant smile on his face, and Colin's not sure it's all due to their having the same taste in crisps.

They walk unremarked through the next sparsely populated shop – evidently, eleven o'clock on a Friday morning is an unpopular time for food shopping – until they reach the crisps aisle, where Bradley unleashes a whoop of victory that makes the elderly woman standing nearby jump as though she's been shot. Colin shoots her an apologetic look that tries to convey _don't mind my friend, he's a nutter_, but she only scurries away and disappears round the corner.

Bradley's picking up bag after bag of crisps and hurling them in the basket, making little gurgling sounds of glee as he does so, all the while shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet as though he can barely restrain himself from leaping for joy. It shouldn't be adorable, but it is. Even worse is when he clutches a bag to his chest dramatically and says, "I was beginning to despair of ever seeing you again, dear heart," with all the fervency of Arthur at his most over-the-top. Colin can't help but laugh as Bradley lifts the bag to his face and kisses it.

"You mock my love, but you don't _know_," Bradley pouts, ripping open the bag and shoving a handful of crisps into Colin's open mouth before he can back away. Colin chokes a little at first, but when he finally closes his mouth and chews, the most heavenly combination of spices explodes on his tongue, and he can't stop the groan of ecstasy as his eyes close so that he can concentrate wholly on the flavour.

He opens them again after a few moments to see Bradley staring at him wide-eyed and stunned, his mouth slightly open. "What?" Colin asks, brushing at his face to see if he's inadvertently covered himself in crumbs.

Bradley shakes his head like a wet dog. "Nothing," he snaps, sounding a little like Arthur in that moment, willfully petulant and snappish. Colin remembers the two of them having long discussions about their characters, the two of them expounding on the theory that Arthur's waspishness is half class-driven and half defense mechanism, particularly where Merlin's concerned. Oddly, they didn't delve too deeply into why Arthur would need to keep part of himself from from Merlin's scrutiny.

Colin opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and closes it again. They finish denuding the shelf of every bag of Onion Bhaji flavour crisps in silence, and when they get back in the lorry, Colin eats without moans or other commentary.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

As they walk through the doors of the fifth shop, Colin takes off the glasses and pushes back his hood. Bradley shoots him a glance out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't comment, and Colin's grateful.

This shop only has a half-dozen sad bags on the shelf, but there's a rather spotty young lad squatting down at the other end of the aisle with a cart loaded with boxes of various types of high-fat, low-nutrition snacks for restocking, including their holy grail. Bradley slaps Colin on the arm and points. "Why didn't I think of that before? C'mon."

They approach the fellow, who doesn't bother to look up until they're towering above him. "Morning, mate," Bradley says in his friendliest tone, and the lad looks up slowly, gaze climbing their bodies until he reaches their faces, and then his eyes go comically wide.

"You wouldn't happen to have any more boxes of Walker's Onion Bhaji out back, would you?" Bradley asks.

"I – I think so," the boy stammers, "three or four like this one, maybe." Colin reads the side of the box; there are two dozen in there. Shit, Bradley really _is_ trying to fill the lorry to bursting.

"I don't suppose you could get them for us?" Bradley wheedles as the boy rises slowly from his crouch.

"What, all of 'em?" His gaze is darting back and forth now, from Colin to Bradley and back again, and Colin's seen that look on people's faces a hundred times now whenever he goes out to buy a coffee or a couple of quid's worth of grapes: that _is it, no, it can't be, bloody hell, it is_ reaction.

"All of 'em," Bradley assures him. "You mind?"

"Not at all, of course, sure," the lad babbles, and before Bradley can thank him, he's sprinting off toward the back of the shop.

"You realise," Bradley says after a moment, "that by the time the day's out, there'll be tales told at the pub about Arthur and Merlin trolling through Kent for crisps."

Colin snorts. "Our great, heroic quest. Too bad you didn't bring the sword."

"They won't let me borrow it," Bradley admits, sheepishly glancing up from under his eyelashes, and Colin laughs, because it's either that or snog him in the middle of the junk food aisle. And wouldn't that be a tale for the pub.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

By the time the afternoon's on its way toward evening, the lorry is full of crisps, and Colin's discovered the unexpected thrill of being silly in public. He's always been as reserved and well-mannered as possible in the presence of the press and the fans since this thing started, but until now he hasn't realised how much it's been grating on him. He's not planning to punch cameramen in the face or get spectacularly drunk and make an arse of himself, but it's surprisingly fun to walk into Tesco's with Bradley at his side, the two of them projecting the air of heroes on a mission.

Unfortunately, the French customs agents who stop their lorry before it's loaded onto the Eurostar don't see their adventure in quite the same light.

"You're going to what?" Bradley demands, gobsmacked. "I mean, erm, _pardon_?" He tries to give the last word its proper French inflection, but he falls a little flat; Colin would offer to help, but his French is about as hopeless as Bradley's.

The customs agent offers up a smile so thin it could slice through steel. "Search your vehicle, monsieur," she says.

"But I've told you what's in it," Bradley insists. The customs agent only stares at him balefully.

"Erm," Colin says to her, holding up a finger, "could I just – talk to him for a moment? Over there?"

She shrugs in that way only those of Gallic descent can manage, and Colin thanks her and drags Bradley by the arm until they're safely out of earshot.

"They think we're trying to smuggle drugs," Colin murmurs.

"They _what_?" Bradley exclaims. Colin waves his arms to quiet him.

"You know, in all the movies – the drug dealers always smuggle the cocaine in crates of coffee or some other strong-smelling substance to fool the sniffer dogs. And you've just told her you've filled an entire lorry with curry crisps."

Bradley stares at him for a couple of seconds, then breaks up laughing. "Oh my God. You got that from watching _The Bill_, didn't you?" He shakes his head. "It's only a random routine search; I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

Colin sighs. "Whatever you say," he mutters, and they head back to the customs desk. As they get closer, Colin can see Bradley's smile becoming more treacly, his walk turning to more of a saunter.

_Christ_, thinks Colin, despairing. _He's going to try to charm her._

"So, erm, I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," Bradley says, leaning an elbow on the counter.

"You may call me Madame," the agent says, and Colin stifles a chuckle.

Bradley continues on, undaunted. "I was wondering how long we could be expected to wait before we're on our way."

She regards him impassively. "Well, I have sent for the dugs, but they are already quite busy."

Bradley blinks. "I'm sorry, the dugs?"

"She means dogs," Colin informs him, _sotto voce_.

Bradley's smile vanishes. "You're going to use dogs to search my lorry?"

"But of course," she says, as though he's a complete idiot. "You are implying we are not thorough in our work?"

"No, no, I'm sure you're very thorough," Bradley says, holding out his hands in a placating gesture that perhaps even he now knows will do no good. "It's just that – there are a lot of loose bags in there, and the dugs – erm, dogs – would be walking on them, and –" He shakes his head. "How long do you think it will take once the dogs arrive?"

The agent shrugs again. "These investigations have been known to take up to six hours. Perhaps yours will be shorter, as it is not a very big _camion_. Perhaps four hours?"

"Oh," Bradley says, crestfallen. "Right. Thank you." He gestures back to where he and Colin were talking earlier. "We're just going to –" he says, and this time he's the one who tugs Colin by the arm.

"Look, this is a bloody disaster, I'm sorry," he says. "I'll take you to London, shall I? There's no reason for your weekend to be ruined."

Colin frowns. "What're you going to do?"

Bradley makes a face. "Haven't thought that far ahead, really." He scratches the back of his neck. "I suppose I could drive the whole lot to my parents' and mail them to France from there." Right, Bradley doesn't have a flat of his own, Colin remembers; he wasn't established in London the way Colin was before the Merlin job came up.

"D'you really want to drive all the way to Torbay tonight?"

"Not particularly," Bradley says, rubbing at his face. "But I don't see another option."

"Look, it'll only take us a couple of hours to get to London," Colin hears himself say, "we can grab some supper and then you can stay the night at my flat. And in the morning we can look at what we're going to do with your stockpile."

Bradley looks at him then, truly looks at him, and Colin holds his gaze, summoning every actor's trick he knows to keep his face a mask. "You wouldn't mind?"

Colin shakes his head. "C'mon, let's blow this one-horse town. You've put me in the mood for a damned good curry."

Bradley's mouth twitches, and Colin's gratified to see a bit of the spark come back to his eyes. "And might you know where one of those may be procured?"

"Hell, yes," Colin says, grinning until Bradley grins along with him.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

"Oh my God," Bradley groans as he takes his first bite of prawn dansak, "you weren't lying."

Colin spoons a generous helping of brinjal bhajee on his plate, beside the pilau rice and the adhari mushroom. Bradley insisted on paying, considering Colin was providing the lodging, and he ordered a truly massive amount of food. There are four vegetarian dishes and two meat, a large order of rice, paratha and papadums and three kinds of nan, and an entire tray of chutney. [The Kennington Tandoori](http://www.kenningtontandoori.co.uk/) gives you two free bottles of beer with the order, and it's a good thing they're small, because between them they've already gone through four of the lagers Bradley picked up on the way by the time the food arrives.

"There's no way we're going to eat all this," Colin says, eyeing the small mountain of takeaway cartons littering his teak patio table.

Bradley shrugs, unconcerned. "There's always breakfast," he says, and Colin gags. "What?"

"You really are a nutter," he says, laughing. Bradley breaks off a piece of minced lamb paratha and spoons a bit of tamarind chutney on it. Colin notices he only touches the spoon to the bread, not the meat, before setting it back down.

"I like Indian food," Bradley says, "in case you haven't noticed by now." He points to the navarathan korma, which is a little out of his reach. "May I?"

"Please," Colin says, passing it to him. Their fingers brush, and Colin concentrates on breathing through his nose. They eat in silence for a while, much to Colin's relief, but after a while Bradley looks about at the view from the terrace.

"You've got a really nice spot here," he says finally, leaning back and craning his neck to take in the tall oak which forms a natural screen between the rooftop and the street. "Not what I expected when you said you lived in Vauxhall."

"You thought I'd have one of those poncy flats on [St George Wharf](http://www.stgeorge-wharf.com/index.cfm?articleID=1), did you?" Colin asks, amused. His flat, the top half of a two-storey Edwardian conversion, is about as far from those towering glass monstrosities as you can get. While it lacks the fancy views of the Thames, it's still close to both the West End and some of the best tapas restaurants in London, and has the added bonus of not being ridiculously expensive. He's had it for nearly three years now, and he loves it fiercely; when he got the job on Merlin, despite the fact he'd be elsewhere for nine months of every twelve, abandoning it simply wasn't an option.

Bradley shrugs. "No. Maybe. I don't know. I suppose it's the sort of place I'd get, if I wanted a flat in London. A place where you could turn the key and not have to worry about it."

"This place is more secure than it looks," Colin assures him. "My landlady lives in the lower flat, and she works from home. Better than an alarm system."

Bradley chuckles. "I imagine it is." He pauses, breathing in the evening air. "It's a super place, anyway."

"Thanks," Colin says quietly, unexpectedly chuffed.

After dinner and washing up, they sit on the sofa and watch a football match for a while until Colin starts nodding off. Bradley nudges him. "Oi, time for bed," he murmurs.

Colin rubs his hands over his face. "Sorry. M'a terrible host."

He freezes when he feels Bradley's hand on his shoulder. "You've been a wonderful host." He's not sure what he'll do if he turns and sees Bradley close to him, so he keeps his gaze glued to the screen. After a few moments, Bradley's hand drops away, and he says somewhat gruffly, "Now why don't you clear off and leave me to sack out here?"

"Oh, no," Colin says, turning to him now. "You're to take the bed."

Bradley frowns. "I can't steal your bed."

"It's not stealing if I give it to you. The sofa isn't meant for sleeping on; you'd be bent double by morning."

"And you wouldn't be? You're taller than I am."

"Well, you're not sleeping on the sofa," Colin says firmly.

"And neither are you," Bradley retorts, folding his arms and giving him his best mock glare. "So what do you propose we do about it?"

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

Which is how he ends up sleeping with Bradley.

It's lucky, he supposes, that his brain's pleasantly fogged by beer and fatigue, because otherwise he wouldn't have survived the moment when Bradley climbed into his bed, stripped to his boxers because he hadn't bothered to bring a change of clothes. If that's lucky, it's a bloody godsend that he has a double bed, though he still fancies he can feel the heat of Bradley's near-naked body branding his left side as he stares up at the ceiling in the darkness.

When he wakes, sunlight is seeping through his curtains and Bradley is snoring softly. His morning erection is also poking Colin in the thigh. Colin briefly contemplates suicide, then decides his landlady doesn't deserve the trouble it would cause. With infinite care, he slides out of the bed; Bradley mercifully remains dead to the world. He ensconces himself in the loo, where he finds a spare toothbrush, a razor blade and an extra set of towels for Bradley, and then climbs into the shower and has a quick and thoroughly unsatisfying wank under the pounding spray.

And then he remembers he hasn't brought any clothes with him from the bedroom. Bugger.

He creeps back to the bedroom, but of course he manages to step on the loose floorboard just inside the doorway, and Bradley snorts awake and peers at Colin with heavy-lidded eyes not yet adjusted to daylight. He's tousled and sleep-flushed and much too beautiful, and it takes every ounce of strength Colin has not to shuck the towel and join him in the bed. Reminding himself that that would be approximately the stupidest thing he's ever done helps him to resist.

"Morning," Bradley says, his voice deepened to a point that's nearly pornographic all on its own. "What time s'it?"

"Just past eight," Colin manages.

"How 'bout I buy you some breakfast? Is there a café round here?"

"Honestly, you don't have to keep –"

"But I do," Bradley insists, his gaze locking with Colin's. "You're putting me up, it's only fair. Besides, I always buy my bedmates breakfast."

Oh, Christ. "Yeah, well, that's usually only if you get at least a blow job out of it," Colin mutters.

Bradley's eyes nearly pop right out of his head at that, and he croaks, "Are you done in the loo, then?" He's already swinging his legs over the far side of the bed. "I'll just pop in there for a few minutes, alright?"

"There's a fresh toothbrush and –" Colin begins, but Bradley's already fled into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

After a gargantuan meal at the [Kennington Lane Café](http://www.qype.co.uk/place/352583-Kennington-Lane-Cafe-London), where Colin orders the builder's breakfast for Bradley while he's in the loo just to watch Bradley turn purple when it's plopped in front of him, they pile into the lorry and drive to the nearest post office, where Bradley posts forty boxes of crisps to himself, care of their hotel in France. It costs a small fortune, but Bradley doesn't seem to mind; it's become a matter of honour, he says. The loose bags they've collected on their quest stay here: Bradley promises he's going to eat himself sick tonight.

When they drive back to his flat, Bradley turns to him and says, "Listen, thanks so much for coming along. I really appreciated it, you know."

"I'm glad you asked me," Colin says, "it was fun," and then he realises the exchange reminds him of the end of a bad date. "Wait, you're not going, are you?"

Bradley smiles. "'Course I am. You've been great, but I can't keep imposing on you like this."

"Yes, you can! I mean, it's not an imposition," Colin says, feeling his mortification grow as he babbles on. "I mean, if you really want to go, certainly, but I thought –" Well, to be truthful, he hadn't thought of anything; he'd just had the vague notion that he wanted to keep Bradley close to him for as long as humanly possible.

"Thought what?" Bradley murmurs, and Colin finds himself staring at Bradley's mouth, which is – utterly gorgeous, actually, and eyes up, eyes up _now_.

Colin licks his own lips before speaking, and he sees Bradley's gaze dip down briefly, and holy fuck, that can't mean what Colin would like it to mean. "I thought I might – show you a bit of the South Bank, if you hadn't seen it. And then later on, a mate of mine has a play on in Camberwell tonight; I told him I'd be there if I was in London."

Bradley watches him for a long moment, and Colin doesn't hold his breath. Well, perhaps a little. Finally, Bradley says, softly, "Yeah, I'd like that – yeah. Thanks."

"Good, that's, yeah," Colin says, and then resolves to have the connection between his mouth and his brain serviced, because clearly it's not working properly. "Well, shall we?"

"Do let's, old chap," Bradley says, in his most posh accent. Colin grins, and they're off.

The day is turning utterly beautiful, not a cloud anywhere, and Colin drags Bradley off to the tube. They emerge at Westminster, and he can tell Bradley's curious, but he doesn't ask questions, trusting Colin to show him a good time. As Colin leads him down the wharf toward the river bus terminal, he can see comprehension dawn. "Do you know, I've never been on the Thames," Bradley muses, and Colin smiles at that.

They take the eastbound bus all the way to Canary Wharf and back again, ending at the Eye. They occasionally comment on the scenery, but most of the time they're quiet, just leaning against the railing and watching the city go by. Out here on the water there's no sense of the bustle and madness, and while that's a part of London too, it's pleasant to strip that away for an hour or so and marvel at the city from the middle of the river that birthed it. Bradley seems to think so, too, because when they finally step off on the south bank again, he squeezes Colin's arm briefly in silent thanks.

"You want to go up for a spin in the Eye?" Colin asks.

Bradley peers upward and shakes his head. "Only if you do. I've already been."

"Mmm," Colin says. He knows what Bradley means; once is enough. By mutual agreement, they take in the Aquarium instead, and then Colin leads Bradley down to the foreshore. The tide is receding, and they pick their way along the shingle and the mud flats.

 

"Stop," Bradley says suddenly, emphasising his words with an arm across Colin's chest.

"What?" Colin demands, more than a little irritated by his instantaneous, embarrassing reaction to Bradley's touch.

Bradley leans in until his breath is tickling Colin's ear, and oh, brilliant, that's a hundred times worse. "Right in front of us," he whispers, nodding, "about ten metres ahead, at the water's edge."

Colin squints and sees a white object moving among the grasses. When it finally steps clear of them, he can see it more clearly. "It's a bird."

Bradley chuckles, the sound rich and low. "It's a Little Egret. I see them all the time on the beaches round Devon, but I'd never have thought I'd see one here."

Colin shifts back and away from Bradley slightly, and Bradley's arm finally drops. They watch the bird – egret – until it suddenly takes flight, wings skimming the surface of the Thames for a few seconds before it defies the pull of gravity.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

The [Blue Elephant Theatre](http://blueelephanttheatre.co.uk) isn't huge, but it's filled to capacity, and Colin takes a moment to pat himself on the back for buying the tickets earlier in the day, because it saves them a twenty-minute queue. Bradley bought a new shirt for the evening, convinced he'd be underdressed despite Colin's reassurances; he casts a baleful eye upon the blue jeans and t-shirts of some of the patrons as they pass through the lobby.

"Told you so," Colin gloats.

"Oh, shut up," Bradley says, without heat. "Anyway, I like the shirt."

_I like it too_, Colin doesn't say, but God help him, he does; it's a dark aubergine silk that clings just enough to remind him of the sight of Bradley's bare torso – not to mention the rest of him – in his bed this morning. Which of course makes him think about Bradley in his bed tonight, and that's not a productive line of thought at all, not unless he wants to be fighting down an erection in the middle of the blasted theatre.

The play's alright, but Nigel is brilliant in it as always, and Colin tells him as much when he sees him backstage after the show. Nigel throws his arms around him and squeezes tight enough to bruise his ribs.

"Thanks, duck." As he releases Colin, he arches an eyebrow at Bradley. "Oh, hullo," he says, smiling.

"Sorry, this is Bradley," Colin says, and Nigel rolls his eyes.

"Yes, it's not as though I haven't watched every episode of your programme, is it?" He extends a hand to Bradley. "Pleased to meet you. You're even prettier in person."

"I get that a lot," Bradley says, and Nigel laughs.

"Most of us are going out to [the Bear](http://www.thebear-freehouse.co.uk/) afterward," Nigel says. "Will you two join us?"

Colin glances at Bradley, who nods. "We'd love to, yeah," Colin says.

"Wonderful! And with you helping us strike the set, we'll be done in no time." Nigel squeezes Bradley's bicep. "Oh yes, no time at all."

"Strike the set?" Colin repeats, and Nigel pats him on the shoulder consolingly.

"This isn't the West End, I'm afraid; we work for a living. Well, best be at it." As he passes them on the way to the stage, Colin throws an apologetic glance at Bradley, who shrugs affably.

"I suppose that's the end of your new shirt," Colin says.

Bradley looks down as though he's forgotten all about it. "Oh, I can take care of that," he says, unconcerned, and promptly unbuttons it, strips it off and throws it over the back of a chair. Aiming a devilish grin at Colin, he heads for the stage; a few moments later, Colin hears a chorus of whoops and wolf whistles.

"Tosser," Colin mutters, moving to follow him.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

After Bradley has cleaned up and put his shirt back on – thank Christ – they walk to the pub, where Colin proceeds to drink himself a little silly. Nigel throws him a couple of questioning glances, but he doesn't get a chance to be truly annoying until Bradley heads to the loo.

"Alright," Nigel says, leaning in, "what's with you and him, then?"

"He's a mate," Colin says into his half-empty pint. "That's all."

"If that's true, you're an idiot," Nigel says, and Colin looks up. "He's obviously besotted with you."

Colin snorts. "You're the idiot," he retorts, vaguely aware the beer seems to be diminishing his usual wit, "he's straight."

"Well, he's curious, then," Nigel insists.

Colin shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. It would never work. And if we shagged, and it was a disaster–"

"You'd pick yourselves up, dust yourselves off and keep working. After all, you're not Liz and Dick."

Colin sighs. "Right, thanks. Sod off."

"And that's last call for you," Nigel says, taking his glass away. "Really, you are the most pathetic drunken Irishman ever. And that's saying something."

"That's prejudice, that is," Colin mutters.

"Oh, blow me," Nigel says amiably.

"Not in public, duck," Colin says, and kisses him, because he's somewhat drunk and he needs to kiss someone or he thinks he might explode.

Which of course is the moment Bradley decides to come back, because of course Colin's life needs to suck that extra bit more.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

"So, you and Nigel," Bradley says, as they're walking back to the flat afterward. Unfortunately, Colin's mostly sober by this point.

"He's a mate," Colin says, "that's all."

"A mate you snog in pubs."

"Yeah. I have several types of mates."

"Right, obviously," Bradley says, his voice flat, "because I probably would have noticed if you'd snogged me."

"I would hope so," Colin mutters, then stops in his tracks and turns to Bradley. "Look, alright, I fancy blokes. And women, occasionally, but mostly blokes. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No, of course not," Bradley says, clearly taken aback. "You don't honestly think I'd have a problem with it?"

Colin suddenly deflates, all his nascent anger dissipating. "No. Just – listen, just ignore me, alright? I'm still a bit pissed and I'm –" _incredibly frustrated sexually_, he nearly adds "– I'm being a prat."

"No, you're not," Bradley murmurs, "I'm the prat, interrogating you. I'm sorry."

"Fine, we're both prats," Colin says, shooting him a smile that Bradley returns.

By the time they reach the flat, Colin's almost entirely sober, though there's still a strange energy buzzing under his skin. He should be exhausted after all that walking today, but instead he feels unsettled, restless.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm ready for bed," Bradley says. "Would you mind if I – " He points toward the bedroom.

"No, no," Colin says, "in fact, I think I'll join you." They stare at one another for a moment, and then Colin hastily adds, "to sleep. Join you. In sleep." Oh, God.

"Well, why don't you use the loo first?" Bradley says.

"No, after you, you're the guest."

"I was first last time."

"That's because you were the guest then, too."

"Colin," Bradley says, voice as low as Arthur's giving a command to his knights.

"Going," Colin says, turning on his heel.

He ends up in bed in boxers and a t-shirt, the covers pulled up to his chin like a virgin on their wedding night, trying to pretend he's already asleep and failing miserably. When he hears the door to the loo creak open, he gives up entirely and opens his eyes.

Bradley is shirtless again, wearing ridiculous boxers with swords all over them he bought along with the new shirt (didn't the shop girl give him a look when he waved them at Colin, triumphantly). Colin notices that in contrast to his cockiness in the theatre, his demeanour seems hesitant, almost nervous. When his feet finally move, his steps are mechanical, as though he's being steered toward Colin's bed by some outside force. Clearly tonight's revelation is going to make this awkward, and while Colin wishes Bradley hadn't found out in the way he did, a small part of him is cheering the fact that at least he's not alone in the awkwardness now.

Bradley climbs into the bed and shuts off the lamp, and Colin wishes him a good night. Bradley doesn't answer the way he did the night before, merely stays on his back, his body held so rigidly Colin's afraid he might snap. Colin sighs and opens his mouth to tell him it's not catching, but before he can Bradley rolls onto his side toward Colin and levers himself up on an elbow. There's just enough light coming in from the bathroom for Colin to see the desperation in his face. The – _is it, no, it can't be, bloody hell, it is_ – the raw, aching _need_.

"Tell me if this is a bad idea," Bradley murmurs, his big, calloused hand rising to cup Colin's jaw, his face coming nearer.

"It's a bad idea," Colin blurts.

"You're probably right," Bradley breathes against his mouth, and then he's pressing his lips lightly to Colin's, as though he's not sure how this sort of thing is done. He pulls back briefly, then angles his head, and this time it's completely different, because between one second and the next Bradley's remembered how to kiss, and oh, _Christ_, it's so good the top of Colin's head might blow off.

Before he knows it, he's clutching at Bradley's shoulders and Bradley's got one hand fisted in Colin's shirt and is dragging it upward, his knuckles grazing Colin's stomach. Colin manages, with a Herculean display of will power, to drag himself away from those incredible lips and gasp, "Have you ever done this before? With a man?"

Bradley freezes. "Why? Is that a prerequisite?"

"Don't be stupid," Colin snaps, and when Bradley tenses even further, he closes his eyes and quickly counts backward from ten before speaking again. "Look, I'm not – I don't know where this is coming from. You found out I'm bisexual a couple of hours ago, and now you're –" he waves a hand "– it's just a little sudden."

"Right, yes, yeah, of course," Bradley says, rolling away and sitting up, drawing his knees to his chest under the sheet. "I suppose it would look that way."

Colin sighs and turns on the light, then sits up as well, his shoulder brushing against Bradley's. "It's only that – most of the men I know have already had some – erm, experiences by this point in their lives."

"I've thought about it," Bradley admits quietly to his knees, "once or twice. I suppose I'm the opposite to you, yeah? I fancy girls more, but now and then I think about men. But I've always been crap at being able to tell – who is and who isn't."

Colin smiles. "In case you haven't noticed, you're fucking beautiful. It's not as though they wouldn't be lining up if you went to a club; you wouldn't need to guess."

"I couldn't do it like that," Bradley says, turning his head to look Colin in the eye. "This isn't –" He trails off, closes his eyes briefly.

"What?"

Bradley opens his eyes again, and when their gazes lock Colin couldn't look away if his life depended on it. "This isn't a lark. This isn't an experiment. I wouldn't do that to anyone, and certainly not to you."

"What's so special about me?" Colin asks, wincing when he realises exactly how conceited that sounds. Bradley seems to think so, too, because his mouth quirks and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and oh fuck, he's adorable.

"You know, I keep asking myself that very same question," he drawls, all wide-eyed innocence, "I ask myself, 'Self, what's so bloody special about Colin bloody Morgan?' And myself answers, 'Buggered if I know, but you're mad about him all the same, aren't you? So who cares?' and I say, 'Self, when you're right, you're right. Carry on.'"

Colin stares at him, so far beyond speech all he can do is gape.

"Now there's the smouldering look that makes you so attractive to your legions of fans," Bradley says.

"You – you – " Colin splutters.

"Not to mention your stunning eloquence. Oscar Wilde is looking down from heaven, green with envy."

"Bradley," Colin manages, bringing his hands up to bracket Bradley's face, "would you just – shut it for a minute?"

"I can do that," Bradley says earnestly, nodding, and Colin has to kiss him, because it's the only way he'll fucking _stop talking_. Bradley responds with a groan, arms wrapping round Colin's back and hauling him close, and Colin sinks his hands into Bradley's soft blond hair and thinks _yeah, alright then._

Bradley rolls over on top of Colin and breathes, "Okay? This okay?" Colin's too busy arching up into the hard press of Bradley's hips against his own, and after a moment Bradley chuckles and licks Colin's neck. Colin gasps when Bradley sucks at the spot he's licked; encouraged, Bradley works his way down to Colin's t-shirt, then hooks a finger in the collar and cocks an eyebrow at Colin.

Colin reaches down for the hem, and Bradley lifts off him to allow them to get Colin's shirt off. Instead of getting closer again, though, Bradley sits back on his heels between Colin's spread legs and stares down at his bare chest. Colin props himself up on his elbows, gut clenching involuntarily at the thought Bradley might be having second thoughts.

And then Bradley reaches out and slowly glides his fingertips down the line of Colin's sternum, over the sparse patch of hair, before veering off-course to graze a nipple. Colin hisses out a sharp breath, and Bradley looks up, concern etched on his face.

"It's fine," Colin assures him, "they're just – really sensitive."

Bradley breaks into a wide, gormless grin as though Colin's just given him a pony, and then he leans down and touches the tip of his tongue to Colin's other nipple.

"Christ," Colin gusts, hands flying to Bradley's head as he begins to hum, sending vibrations straight from the small nub to his cock.

"Has anyone ever made you come like this? Just from this?" Bradley whispers against his skin, and Colin lets go and grabs the mattress instead, because otherwise he'll yank Bradley's hair right out of his head, and wait, isn't _he_ supposed to be the one with all the bloody experience?

Bradley lifts his head then, as though sensing his question, and grins. "Nipples I know. I can work with nipples," and fine, Colin's willing to give Bradley the lead for now, let him settle in and get comfortable. He can be generous that way.

Ten minutes later, Colin's panting as though he's run a marathon, his shorts are a sticky mess, and he doesn't think he's ever felt better in his life. He covers his eyes with his forearm, and a slightly hysterical giggle breaks free.

"What?" Bradley demands, and even without looking at him Colin can tell he's grinning.

"I think you invented a whole new variety of gay sex," Colin says, lifting his arm away. Well, probably not, but it's new to him, and Bradley looks chuffed at the compliment.

"I've always secretly longed to be hailed as an innovator," Bradley says loftily, and Colin laughs and hits him with the pillow. He rolls off the bed and shucks his ruined boxers, then wipes himself down with them and tosses them in a corner. When he turns back round, he sees Bradley sprawled out on the bed, cock still hard under the thin layer of cotton. For about two seconds, he contemplates asking Bradley to fuck him, but discards it; they're neither of them ready for that yet. Instead, he stands at the foot of the bed and holds Bradley's gaze.

"Let me see you?" he asks, softly. Bradley's eyes widen and his cheeks flush, but he complies, slowly peeling his boxers away to reveal his rather impressive erection. Colin's mouth waters at the sight, and Bradley shifts under his gaze.

"What should I – " Bradley begins, voice hesitant and sweetly shy.

"Sit up against the pillows," Colin tells him, and Bradley complies. Carefully, watching Bradley's reactions the whole time, Colin gets on his hands and knees on the bed and kisses him. Bradley clutches at him a little desperately, but Colin keeps the kiss gentle until he quiets.

"I thought I might suck you," Colin murmurs against his mouth. "It's a bit traditional, though. That alright with you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think I can live with that. We don't always have to reinvent the wheel, do we?" Bradley babbles, and then Colin leans down and nuzzles the head of Bradley's cock, and Bradley's words strangle in his throat. Colin hears a soft _thunk_ shortly after that may be the sound of the back of Bradley's skull hitting the wall.

And Bradley might know nipples, but Colin knows cocks, and twenty minutes later Bradley's pleading for Colin to finish him, even though he was about thirty seconds from coming when they started. Colin's hard again himself, and he can't restrain the rutting motion of his hips, even as he denies Bradley his own release.

"You – oh God, are you – Colin, c'mon, c'mere," Bradley pants, and Colin pulls off when he feels Bradley's hand tug insistently at his shoulder. Hesitating until he sees the need in Bradley's eyes, Colin maneuvers himself so that he can straddle Bradley's hips and line up their cocks.

"Oh, Christ," Bradley gasps, staring down as Colin gathers both of them in his hand and begins a slow, merciless stroke. His skin sheened with sweat, his face flushed and gorgeous, Bradley loops an arm round Colin's neck and hauls him into a passionate, messy kiss that ends when Bradley breaks to breathe and presses their foreheads together.

His hand tentatively reaches out to brush against Colin's. "Show me," he begs, "please show me, I want to touch you," and Colin groans and fumbles his stroke, then grabs hold of Bradley's hand and molds it round their cocks. Bradley's hand is bigger overall but his fingers are shorter, so he can't quite encircle them completely; this is why, Colin reasons, he links their fingers together as they resume the rhythm.

"Colin, oh, God, Colin, I love –" Bradley's words are cut off as he comes, their grips instinctively tightening to draw out every last ounce of pleasure. Colin lays his head on Bradley's shoulder and watches him, and he thinks, _God, that's Bradley, I made him, we made –_ and then his brain short-circuits as he follows him over, Bradley's lips pressed to his ear, Bradley's thighs warm and solid between the both of his.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

They wake up in the middle of the night, ravenous as starving wolves, and eat several bags of Onion Bhaji crisps apiece, though Colin leaves the leftover curry to Bradley. With their energy thus renewed, Bradley has a go at sucking Colin's cock. He encourages Colin to tell him what to do, exactly how to kiss and lick and touch and press, every step of the way – and Colin's glad the light's off by then, because his face feels like it's ready to spontaneously combust by the time he's done. When his landlady rings to ask him why he's screaming the house down at four a.m., and is he sure he isn't actually being murdered? – Bradley declares himself a minor god of gay sex. At this moment, Colin's inclined to agree.

"I love this flat," Colin says, wrapping his arms around Bradley as they collapse together in a sticky, exhausted heap. "Don't get me kicked out."

"I love this flat, too," Bradley murmurs, and in the next moment he's asleep in Colin's embrace, a small, contented smile on his face that causes Colin's heart to flip over several times in his chest before sleep finally claims him as well.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

Their first day of shooting back in France, Bradley distributes bags of Onion Bhaji crisps to each and every member of the cast and crew, and the sound men are soon despairing of the incessant crunching from all quarters. As they sit about between takes, Angel eyes them speculatively, and Colin attempts to keep this hopelessly silly joy he's been feeling constantly from showing on his face.

"So you spent your entire holiday buying crisps," she says, clearly unconvinced.

Bradley draws himself up. "Not just any crisps! These are the best crisps in the history of crisps!" He leans in to Angel. "Actually, I'm hoping to start an online petition to bring them back," he says conspiratorially. "Can I count on your vote?"

Angel rolls her eyes. "You are completely mental." Turning her attention to Colin, she asks, "How did you put up with him for an entire weekend?"

Colin can feel Bradley's gaze on him as he pretends to contemplate the question. "I'll admit it was hard," Colin says, suppressing a grin as Bradley very nearly chokes on his own spit, "but I think I'll leave the rest up to your imagination."

**Author's Note:**

> Read the sequel, [Home Truths](http://archiveofourown.org/works/71657)


End file.
